Brushed Off
by areyouserial
Summary: Missing scene from 8x06 that was severely lacking in Jamko. Just a drabble that assumes Jamie and Eddie got hit with more red paint than the show revealed.


_**A/N** : Just a drabble. Inspired by my need for more Jamko. :)_

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"I'm just saying." Eddie offers me a defensive lift of her shoulders as she turns to reach for a packet of sugar. Having dropped off our uniform shirts to be cleaned, we're left to wrap up our tour in matching black undershirts back at the house. "We should have gone in together. It wasn't safe to go up to that loft alone."

With a tilt of my head, I humor her concern but my eyes cut up to the ceiling of the precinct break room anyway. "She was unarmed."

"You didn't know that."

"You're right." I fall in beside her at the coffee station and watch as she prepares two cups. I sneak an appreciative glance at the way her hair falls loose from her ponytail, a strand of it carelessly brushing the curve of her cheek. "I risked paper cuts and potentially more flying paint but we came out alive."

Quickly, her elbow juts out to nudge me in the side. "You're not funny."

I return the bump, rocking against her. Glancing down, I notice how the touch of her forearm lingers against mine, smooth golden skin highlighted by faint blonde hairs. The width and coarseness of my own reminding me for a moment how tiny she is. I forget all the time.

"Don't be mad at me," I urge, the words soft under my breath.

Her eyes narrow in a sideways look but that smirk she always fails to hide sneaks onto her lips anyway. "Tough guy," she teases, setting a freshly poured cup of coffee in front of me.

With a shake of my head, I exhale a breathy laugh. "Thanks."

"One day your hero complex is going to get you hurt." She glances up at me, the relentless blue of her eyes halting my easy breath for a moment. But she gives herself away with the scrunch of her nose.

I mirror the look. It's become intuitive the way a look from her prompts a hidden one from me in return, a secret, reassuring exchange that we forget other people can see sometimes.

"That's when I have _you_ to bring me food and listen to me complain," I reason, raising the cup to my lips. "When I'm laid up with a paint injury."

"Ugh fine," she sighs. "Barge into crazy people's lofts without your partner and I will dutifully yell at people to _back up_ to make room for all your glory."

"I do have a thing for you yelling at people," I muse, quirking an eyebrow over the rim of my cup.

She feigns a roll of her eyes but the unguarded smile still appears. "Shut up."

Another mutual look lingers as my gaze squints and I have to laugh as she looks away for a sip of her coffee.

Eventually I spread my hands to explain. "I believe I assessed the risk accurately. Okay?"

She blinks and offers an conciliatory shrug. "Roger that, partner."

"I still need you, you know." The confession is half teasing but she knows I mean it.

Breathing out a soft laugh, she makes her way closer. "Yeah I know."

The way her gaze connects with some part of me that draws her attention unexpectedly makes my pulse jump. I feel the vague confusion flicker in my eyes before she leans in, her brows drawing together as she seems to scrutinize my cheek.

"What?" I wonder, but it's barely out loud. I let the nearness of her consume me just long enough to forget the lack of space between us.

Then her hand goes to my face. In a brief panic, my eyes dart to gauge her intent - to _assess the risk_. But she merely drags her thumb across my chin, then traces the tip of her index finger just beneath my mouth.

I should flinch away but I don't. I just watch her and try to remember to breathe. "What?" I repeat.

"You have paint on your lip," she tells me. She rubs a little harder with her finger, and I feel my lips part, falling slack at her touch. It takes actual effort to keep them off her hand. _Shit_. Sometimes these impulses flicker inside me out of nowhere and it's as if I have to remember to stamp them out before it ignites something we can't take back.

"Oh," I manage, swiping at it with my own thumb.

Seeming satisfied, she gently urges me back with a hand in the center of my chest. It's like it lands right in the ache I can't deny I have for her.

"See? What would you do without me?" She teases, flashing me one last cruel smirk before she turns to walk away, reminding me of the greatest risk I'm still too afraid to accept.


End file.
